


Searching for Luck

by MELTcorp



Series: Luck, Balance, and Soulmates [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Feels, Blood and Injury, Brief Mentions of Blood, Gen, M/M, Mild Blood, Minor Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Pre-Slash, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, stormtroopers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22351831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MELTcorp/pseuds/MELTcorp
Summary: It’s then that he notices a strange mark on the back of her wrist, taking up most of it. He recognizes it immediately.A Soulmark.He’s seen plenty through the years as a Stormtrooper while interacting with civilians. It’s a common occurrence. About eighty-five percent of beings within the galaxy are known to have a Soulmark, or so he’s been told. He only knows so much on them, it’s forbidden to even mention the idea of a Soulmark to a fellow trooper, but he always notices the varying shapes, sizes, and complexities.ORCorin is sent alongside a random squad of troopers to a desert planet to retrieve a runaway Arcona, unwanted memories of the past re-surging as he comes across those with the Mark.
Relationships: Pre-Corin the Stormtrooper (Rescue and Regret)/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Series: Luck, Balance, and Soulmates [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608982
Comments: 11
Kudos: 121





	Searching for Luck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Rescue and Regret](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21648874) by [LadyIrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyIrina/pseuds/LadyIrina). 



> So, this fic sorta grew legs and was only supposed to be a _small_ starting point to a bigger series. Either way, this is part one. Sorry in advance of no Mandalorian, the child, or actual Mandorin content in this part. I promise they come later.

_Hot._

That’s all that continuously crosses CT-113's mind as the squad of four trudges through another miserable wasteland of a desert, over an hour’s walk away from their true destination. If they’re lucky. 

He’s not too optimistic about it, though. 

Bad luck has already been rearing its ugly head as they force landed miles from their destination due to less fuel than anticipated, and now they must traverse this scorching heat while the planet’s two stars are at their highest point in the sky. 

To be honest, bad luck has been following him since the very moment he was sent an order that even his squadron’s captain couldn’t say no to, told to have one of his troopers leave their post for a quick side job alongside other troopers that have never worked together before. 

He doesn’t feel the tides of luck changing in his favor any time soon. Then again, that could be the heat talking. 

He misses the snow. 

It’s _so hot._

Why does it have to be this hot? 

Absently, he goes to scratch an itch on his back at his left hip, but is stopped by the armor covering it. Grumbling, he minutely squirms, trying to alleviate the itch caused by the unbearable heat. 

“You fall any further behind and we’ll leave you here to scorch, CT-113.” The implied order snaps him out of his inner-grumbling to quicken his pace in response. His current mission leader, TK-084, isn’t one to joke. 

With a heavy sigh, CT-113 soldiers on, silently pleading that good luck is hiding on the other side of the next dune. 

\--- 

Good Luck doesn’t show up until almost two hours later when they finally reach an outcrop containing one of the few remaining Imperial Outposts. He’s been told that not only is it fully stocked with sufficient supplies, but it’s also in possession of a functioning subspace transceiver. 

Honestly, CT-113 is just glad to get out of the damn heat. 

From the outside, the place looks too small to be able to hold a communications room, let alone a hangar, but the big corridor to their left that leads to what is clearly said top-notch communications room, as well as the four other corridors and three doorways spaced out widely throughout the current room they’re in disproves that. 

TK-084 immediately heads off to use the equipment to contact their employer- confirming of the squad’s arrival as well as gather further intel on the next stage of their mission. Meanwhile, FN-384 takes the opportunity to step through one of the two doorways toward the back. Curious, CT-113 follows behind, continuing through the short hallway that eventually opens up to the outpost’s vehicle hangar. 

He allows himself a grin under his helmet as he approaches a cluster of swoop bikes. 

Traveling in this kriffing heat just became way more exciting. 

It’s not long after their discovery when their mission leader and remaining member barge in through the same doorway, stealing his attention from the swoop bike. 

“We got further instructions for the mission.” TK-084 booms as he stalks over to them, deep voice resonating through the hangar. “Our target is a rogue Arcona, roughly two meters in height. Last seen in a town another ten klicks due south from here. Wanted alive; our employer will not pay if the body is cold. Gear up, we leave in five.” He briefs them, not even waiting for their replies in confirmation before striding over to another door CT-113 missed while he was distracted by the bikes. 

It turns out to be a weapons closet. Deciding he may need a couple extra weapons better suited for stunning their target, CT-113 follows suit and grabs a few flashbangs and an extra stun blaster, just for good luck. By keeping the target alive the mission has a better chance at attracting bad luck, and he definitely doesn’t want to be caught unprepared on top of that. 

Unfortunately, it isn’t his ultimate call on how they should go about it, no matter how easy he’d prefer the mission to be. He’s only a lowly foot soldier who could easily be shot dead if an “eep” escaped his mouth in protest. 

Through the years he’s learned that it is best to just become that cog in the well-oiled machine that is the Imperial army. Even after the Empire’s downfall just a mere four years back, it doesn’t erase the memory of a harsh discipline administered to those who went against orders, both through first- and second-hand experience, through the other twenty plus years he spent leashed to the Imperial army. 

Nope, he is perfectly fine with quietly following orders, thank you. 

Double checking on all his acquired gear, as well to see if his original blaster is set to stun, CT-113 joins back with the team by the bikes, taking up a bike of his own just as the others had. 

In short order, he’s starting it up and racing off alongside his troop heading south for their target. 

\--- 

It’s a quick ride into town. They don’t come across any trouble along the way and CT-113 can’t be more grateful about that. He found the heat a bit more bearable when he isn’t tripping through the sand and instead gliding over it. 

He observes his surroundings as they make to park their bikes. Unsurprisingly, many of the locals seem to be maintaining a wide berth from the troopers, keeping their eyes averted as they walk by. They, too, seem to understand that the Empire is not to be disrespected. 

CT-113 can’t blame them, either, as not only is this a backwater planet, but the town itself survives on very little goods and wares that the main city, Q’rahm, sends them as an afterthought. Q’rahm, he was told, is one of the many major civilizations under the Empire’s former galactic rule that is still unaware of the change of the Empire’s current status, never being told otherwise. 

Unlucky for them, but lucky for CT-113 and his team as they begin their search for their elusive target. 

He approaches a couple walking hand in hand, the others taking off in other directions to question other civilians. Grabbing their attention, he absently notes how the shorter woman, skin tinted a muddy orange (and could probably manhandle CT-113, easily, despite her petite build; her body rippling in muscle), takes a half step in front of her much taller partner, whose skin is tinted an interesting shade of grey. The lanky one tenses as her hand, the same one that was once holding the shorter woman’s, is placed gently on her partner in the spot where shoulder meets neck, just above the shoulder blade, almost caressing it. 

“Have either of you come across an individual of the Arcona species recently?” He questions, scrutinizing their beings for any signs of recognition. All he registers is the orange one narrowing her eyes and biting her lip. 

“Why would the Empire have an interest in anyone living here?” Her sharp reply almost shocks him enough to shift back, but he stands his ground. The woman behind her squeezes the hand resting at her strong shoulder as she whispers frantically at her. He can’t hear what she’s saying but, ultimately, deems it not important enough to care. 

“Nothing to concern yourself with,” CT-113 clips, following up with a decent enough answer in hopes that they’d cooperate faster. “Higher ups require his presence.” 

The grey woman makes a small squeak as her free hand comes to her mouth. It’s then that he notices a strange mark on the back of her wrist, taking up most of it. He recognizes it immediately. 

A Soulmark. 

He’s seen plenty through the years as a Stormtrooper while interacting with civilians. It’s a common occurrence. About eighty-five percent of beings within the galaxy are known to have a Soulmark, or so he’s been told. He only knows so much on them, it’s forbidden to even mention the idea of a Soulmark to a fellow trooper, but he always notices the varying shapes, sizes, and complexities. 

Some could be as simple as three overlapping triangles with the middle one balancing a horizontal line at its peak and a small black circle at its center, like the one this pair seemingly possess if their closeness as well as the slender woman’s hand placement are any indications of their Soulmark connection. 

Others could be as tiny as a mole on the chin. Or so big to take up the entire front of an upper leg. 

Very rarely has he come across a Soulmark with so many shapes and symbols that one would need to actually stop what they’re doing to analyze it. He has though, and he’d like to think that those are the best ones as it is widely rumored that the more complex a Soulmark, the deeper the love between those two beings. 

A love so deep and complex between two Soulmates that not even a Soulmark can grasp the relationship’s true potential. 

CT-113 feels the scar on his back by his left hip throb as too many images flash far too quickly across his mind. Just as quickly, he shuts his mind’s eye to it, refusing to acknowledge such thoughts. 

This Soulmark, as well as the topic in general, shouldn’t matter to him anyway: he’s a Stormtrooper through and through. 

He took an oath of loyalty at the age of fifteen. 

There’s no changing that. 

“We saw him at the market down the road,” The tall woman answers pointing to her right with the hand originally covering her mouth, “just this morning as we were purchasing our meat.” The orange-skinned woman glares at her partner almost as if in betrayal, but doesn’t go any further than that. In fact, her shoulders eventually slump, all the tension gone from her body, as she nods in agreement. 

Taking a small step back from the couple, CT-113 looks over in the direction of where the supposed market is, unable to decide if he is lucky to have questioned the right people so quickly or unlucky as this could very well be the start of a wild bantha chase. 

“The Empire appreciates your cooperation.” He intones before walking off to find his troop, comm-ing them of a potential lead. 

Once he meets up with them, he conveys this new information and, since he was the only one with any lead, they head over to the local market. 

For such a little town with very few people living in it, the market seems quite busy. People almost constantly going in and out. CT-113 notices a commotion towards the back as they enter. People yelling over each other, arms raised up toward a man who, he assumes, runs the place. He’s got a lanky build, angular face, and eyes that slit vertically. Said eyes take a sweep over the people gathered around him. 

“Yew’s gutta duh betta dan dat. High-ya! Enibuhdy? Nuhbuhdy?” His accent is strong, almost hard to decipher some words making him wonder if the guy is even speaking Basic. More people raise their voices at him, hard to understand, until he realizes that the guy running it is auctioning off the heavy-looking meat in his left hand, shaking it as if to entice higher prices. 

“Suuhld!” The auctioneer shouts as he shoves the meat at a tiny Snivvian who grabs it quick, exchanges with the credit that is due, and heads out of the market, passing close by CT-113, in a rushed matter. 

“What the pfassk...?” He curses under his breath as he is forced to shift out of the way of the tiny, snaggle toothed pig, watching as he leaves the store. 

It gets dead quiet after that. Turning back to the crowd he notices all eyes on him. Well, his team too but he can’t help but feel those eyes following his every move as his squad makes way to the crowd. 

“We are here in the name of the Empire looking for someone.” TK-084 declares to the crowd in his deep voice. A quiet murmur hums through the group. “He is of an Arcona race. Couple meters tall and last known location to be in this very market.” He takes a few steps closer to the group, posture stiff. CT-113 can’t see his facial expression from where he is standing but he can only assume from everyone’s reactions that it isn’t a friendly face. 

The market auctioneer steps forward, “Le’s take dis tuh de back.” Then he steps past those gathered around him to lead the troopers into a backroom. 

Being the last to enter also means he’s the last to become aware of the narrow room, barely able to fit the five people currently cramped together. Unfortunately, the gangly man closes the door behind them. To say that CT-113 is uncomfortable with his front pressed up against FN-384's arm is an understatement. He tries to shift away but doesn’t get far before he is against the door they just came through. 

Stewing quietly in his frustration, he faces the supposed market owner, silently urging this impromptu meeting to be quick. 

“Dere was rumah dat Tillek had eh.... heestary. Peeople heere duhn’ fuss uhva it dough. Nuht heere. We small wid many diff’ren’ heestarees.” The slender man takes a seat behind his narrow desk. Dread creeps up on him as CT-113 gets the vibe that this Arcona’s whereabouts won’t be shared, until he continues. “’Ow-evuh, da peeople val’yew peace faah muhre dan e-nee puhtential trouble when reesistin’.” He pauses to glance at each of them, and the weapons they each have holstered. CT-113 doesn’t back down from the eye contact when he reaches him. “Suhmding tells mee dat will bee duh case wid yuh Stuhrmtroopahs.” 

He hears a small shift from the direction of his mission leader. By the auctioneer’s widened eyes, he can only assume that there was a silent threat thrown his way, further proving the slim man’s theory. 

Losing his composure, the auctioneer supplies them with the Arcona’s location, “Tillek Xepff lives een uh dwelling uh kiluhmeduh eest of heere. Idt’s de uhnly buildin’ dat wa-ee. You can’ meess it.” He audibly gulps after his confession and slumps back in his chair, eyes closing, clearly done with them. 

They make their exit, unprompted. CT-113 is glad to be out of the cramped room. Also, he can't stop his smile as he feels like good luck has finally arrived. 

Soon, he’ll be off this wretched sand-ball and back at his post on his beloved ice-ball. 

\--- 

He’s wrong. It doesn’t happen often, but he is oh so wrong with this feeling. 

Finding the place is easy. A run down, boarded-up, house that screams visitors are not welcome. Instantly, they go on high alert, CT-113 holding on to the bike handle with one hand as they slow in their approach. His other hand goes to his blaster at his waist. 

No sooner do they stop to get off their bikes is when all hell breaks loose. 

He hears a shot fire but doesn’t see where it comes from. Movement and a crash to his left distracts him from searching for the source of the shot. FN-384 lies on the ground, a hole three fingers wide in the middle of his chest plate bleeding out into the ground. 

Direct hit. 

He never even had a chance. 

CT-113 doesn’t hesitate to find the closest boulder, reaching no higher than his hip, to hide behind hoping the others do the same as he hears another shot fire. He unholsters his blaster and, when no other sounds come forth, he chances a glance around the boulder. Barely getting the location of the others hidden behind a couple of smaller boulders on the other side of where their bikes lay, another shot rings out. 

Shoving himself back against the bolder, he switches his focus to locating where the shots are coming from. Assuming that Tillek Xepff, their rogue target, is the one shooting at them, CT-113 takes a chance to peak over the boulder to take a look at the house. 

“Kriff!” He shouts under his breath, ducking back down as another shot bounces off his boulder. At least he can now confirm that the shots are coming from the house. 

Racking his brain on ways to get out of this without both losing another trooper and killing their target, CT-113 shifts to the other side of the boulder to look from a different angle. His eyes zero in on the small tool shed a short sprint from his hiding spot. It’s got an inclined roof angled in a way that, along with the placement of the shed, is a perfect vantage point to remain unnoticed as he attempts to locate Tillek and then shoot him down. 

It’s just a matter of _getting there_ unnoticed as well. 

Another shot resonates, followed by a muffled curse. He shifts again to chance a look over at his unit members when his left-hand bumps into another weapon holstered at his waist. Remembering the flashbangs he acquired, CT-113 quickly takes one out, knowing exactly what he needs to do. 

“I’ve got an idea.” He declares into the comms to the remaining members of his squad, hoping they’re still able to hear him, then follows up with a warning, “Cover your eyes.” 

Without hesitation, CT-113 pulls the pin, pushes up from behind the rock and rockets the grenade into the middle distance between him and the house. Simultaneously, he feels a sharp punch at his lower left abdomen that takes his breath away, but it only slows him briefly as he elects to ignore it. He shields his eyes with his arm from the following blinding light, and additionally protects the ear that is closest to the blast from the resounding bang, and then takes off toward the shed. 

He stumbles a bit from the shooting pain on his side but is able to reach the shed without any further problems. Jumping, he latches his fingers onto the edge of the roof and slowly pulls himself up on top, the pain intensifying as he uses his abs to do so. 

Flopping to his back on the roof, CT-113 takes a deep, shaky breath to regroup, the wound throbbing as he tries to will away the slight dizziness. 

He needs to get this done quick. 

Flipping over to his stomach, letting out a hiss at the pain, CT-113 creeps his way up to the top of the incline, peeking over the edge. 

It’s a clear view of the house, and it seems he hasn’t been noticed yet. He carefully brings his blaster up to aim with his left hand while holding a second flashbang with his right, waiting for any signs of movement inside. 

There. In the one upstairs window. A shadow shifts. Setting up, then pulling his arm back, he launches the grenade at the window, hoping the close range of the flash will incapacitate Tillek long enough for them to reach him. He ducks back down to shield his eyes, hearing a bang again from the grenade. This time a high-pitched scream erupts from the house, from the general direction of the window, followed by an anguished cry of rage. 

The raged cry did not come from that same direction. 

Quickly looking over the edge, it takes him a mere second to find an Arcona, who must be Tillek, stalking out the front door of his house toward the same boulders he last saw the remaining two members of his unit hiding behind. Not sparing a thought, CT-113 aims his blaster and shoots. 

He didn’t hit the exact spot he intended but he still hit all the same. Catching his target on the thigh, a blue light surges around Tillek as he crumples to the ground. 

But he doesn’t stay down. 

CT-113 watches as Tillek continues toward the boulders, crawling by his arms alone, legs momentarily useless behind him. 

Looking back, maybe they should have researched into the Arcona species before tracking this guy down; maybe then they would be having better luck in capturing him instead of this shitshow. How many times can he stun an Arcona before it actually kills them? 

Not wanting to chance it, CT-113 grunts while attempting to stand on the roof, hoping to become a distraction for his team so they could finally cuff him. He gets to a kneeling position before deciding that standing will take too much effort for him at the moment. 

“Hey!” He calls out. The Arcona’s head wrenches in his direction at the call. 

Before he can make another sound, though, another voice rings out. 

“Tillek!” 

He zeroes in on the woman making a mad dash from the front door of the house, tensing when she stumbles to the ground at Tillek’s side. CT-113 realizes that she, too, is an Arcona, based on their similar triangular-shaped heads and large, wide-set eyes. Her hands are frantically patting down her counterpart’s body as if searching for injuries. 

She isn’t paying attention to her surroundings, he notes, and neither is their target. If they were, then they’d see Stormtrooper TK-084 sneaking up to the distracted couple. 

CT-113 does. 

He sees it all from on top of the shed roof as the unit leader grabs ahold of the woman, arm around her neck, and drags her back from the male Arcona, blaster held up in a threatening manner. TK-084 briefly releases the woman to grab the stun cuffs from his belt and toss them to the ground by the target, arm going back around the woman’s neck. 

Luck is not on her side today. 

CT-113 frowns under his helmet, uncomfortable with the way things are turning out but knowing that he can’t do anything about it. Stormtroopers, as well as their clients, don’t care about how the mission is done, only about the end result. Going against his current leader’s method is sure to create bad luck for him, too, in the foreseeable future. 

Instead of that hardship, he’ll take the current good luck that he is witnessing right now in their almost-capture of their wanted Arcona. 

Gingerly crawling towards the edge of the roof, he attempts to find his way down without further injury, keeping an eye on the proceedings all the while. Gripping the edge, he turns his body around to dangle his legs below. He hisses in pain as he slowly lowers himself to just hang by his hands, not wanting to be jerked into a drop as that will only cause more pain than necessary. 

He sees their target grab the cuffs and wrap them around his wrists, shaking them up at his captor as if to show proof that he did what was asked. 

Preparing himself with a deep breath, CT-113 releases his grip to drop the rest of the way to the ground, bending his knees as his feet touch the ground to cushion the impact. The wound still hurts like a bitch, regardless. 

The sound of a blaster shooting catches his attention, instantly he hones in on the direction the sound came from. He anxiously watches as the Arcona woman drops with a hard thump to the ground, body spazzing before eventually falling still. 

Ignoring his pain entirely, CT-113 rushes over to his mission leader. Tillek gives out a loud roar as he surges up from the ground, intending to attack the stormtrooper, only to be knocked down by a punch to the face. 

Finally reaching them, CT-113 starts speaking before he realizes it. “Why’d you shoot her?! You didn’t have to shoot her.” He gasps out, regretting running that short distance as the pain in his side continuously throbs causing him to bend slightly into it and place his hand on top of the wound. 

TK-084 scoffs as he holsters his gun. “I stunned her. She’s only unconscious. Relax.” Then his helmet faces in his direction as his squad leader looks at him, the glare underneath palpable, “You don’t have a problem with it, do you, CT-113?” He threatens more than questions. 

In no time, CT-113 drops his hand from his wound and stands ramrod straight in reply to the tone. 

“No, sir. Not one problem, sir.” He responds without inflection. 

Without another word, TK-084 dismisses him by going over to their target and jerking him up by the arm to stand on his feet. There’s seemingly very little resistance from the Arcona, now, as he stares despondently at the unconscious woman. 

Taking the brief opportunity while his leader takes their captive to the bikes, CT-113 checks on the woman lying motionless on the ground. Placing two fingers against her neck, he immediately feels a muted, rapid pulse. He sighs in relief as he moves to straighten up but pauses when something catches his eye. 

Half covered by her silver hair, just below the apex of the right-side of her head, is a Soulmark. 

His breath cuts short as he stares, transfixed by its symbols, tiny as they are. 

Five black circles line the center of it, vertically spaced apart with the two outside circles bigger and more shaped like raindrops falling away from the center. On either side are two semi-arches radiating away from the center circle. As a whole, it kind of reminds him of a galaxy rotating around its center. Just outside of that are four outlined circles, each blocking off a corner. The circles themselves each have an incision reaching from the top edge and ending at its center. 

Unable to look away, sudden images of triangles, arches, and circles all converging on each other burst through his mind. Overwhelmed, CT-113 stumbles a few steps back, breath hiccupping. His entire left side, front and back, is pulsing uncontrollably now- his gut telling him that it’s not just from his carelessness with his wound. 

His stomach drops as the memories take longer to shut down. 

Memories of eternal hope and faithful desire turning to those of physical pain and emotional agony surge forward as he loses his breath, gasping for air. A complex symbol begins to sharpen into focus, one he hasn’t seen in well over a decade. Along with it comes a specific reminder... his father’s voice echoing behind his ears... 

_‘With this Purge, you swear a sacred oath of unconditional obedience and shall, whensoever you are asked, be prepared, as a loyal servant, to surrender your life for this oath.’_

Catching his breath, and ignoring the current picture in his head, he finally turns away from the woman to join his team and complete the mission. 

As he passes the boulder he previously hid behind, he notes with surprise the two marks made by Tillek’s blaster rifle, and not just the one as he remembers. 

Turns out he was lucky it wasn’t a direct hit. 

\--- 

They make it back to base in record time, only coming back with two of the four bikes: TK-084 lugging an unconscious Arcona on his bike and CT-113's remaining squad member, FN-424, half-conscious and trying desperately to hold on to CT-113's waist with one arm while the other is strapped to his chest, part of his hand missing under the impromptu wrapping. 

CT-113 almost bit through his lip a few times whenever the arm around his waist shifted due to the bike’s movements. 

Somehow, maybe by some stroke of good luck, they do make it, FN-424's arm now slung around his shoulders as they slowly trek to the base’s med bay. He takes sharp breaths through his nose as they go, repeating in his head that they’re almost there. 

Finally finding the medical room, he sets his teammate down on a bed, instantly locating a bacta tank. The only one from what he can see. Running on fumes at this point, CT-113 works on autopilot to put the tank in running order and get FN-424 into it, hoping a night or two will do the trick. 

Once his teammate is all squared away, he finally takes the moment to get to his own wound. Worryingly enough, it’s partially numb at this point. He removes his helmet and peels off his armor one piece at a time, noticing a spiderweb crack in the armor where the blaster hit, a few large chips missing. Eventually, he gets down to his undershirt which is soaked in blood at the wound, tears made through the fabric. The dreaded feeling of bad luck creeps up again as he pulls off the last article of clothing blocking him from the wound. 

Undeniably, those sizable chips are embedded into his abdomen. 

He lets out a hiss at the already mottled bruising around the bleeding cuts, poking around the edges to assess the damage. 

A low sigh catches his attention, head turning toward the med bay entrance. Leaning in the doorway is a stormtrooper without his helmet. Considering that two out of the three remaining troopers are already here, CT-113 assumes it’s TK-084- apparently a deeply tanned bald man with a sharp goatee of white hair. 

“Let me see that.” The trooper’s deep voice demands, instantly confirming CT-113's suspicions, as he steps foot into the room. He sees the troop leader glance over at the bacta tank but makes no attempt to mention it. 

Too exhausted to put up a fight about it, CT-113 moves his arms out of the way and stands there as his fellow trooper examines the injury. 

TK-084, with eyes a surprising shade of deep red, doesn’t take long scrutinizing the wound checking both front and back. He makes a small humm-ing sound as if in confirmation while looking at his back but he takes off to the medical supplies before CT-113 could question it. 

It’s quiet as he waits for the bald trooper to return with the medical equipment. He silently hopes he’s lucky enough to get the wound patched up before he passes out, feeling his body aching to just shut down. 

The other man returns before long and directs CT-113 to lie down on one of the beds in order to dig out the small shards of armor in his stomach. Once lying down, he starts squirming in both anticipation of the pain and the intensity of the other trooper’s attention. 

Unable to stand the charged silence as he watches TK-084 approach the wound with a pair of forceps, CT-113 starts talking. 

“Where’s the Arcona?” Not that he cares at the moment with his injury taking up most of his thoughts but it can’t hurt to show his dedication to the job. 

He barely hears the answer of “In the holding cell,” before he’s letting out a low gurgling sound of discomfort, hands white knuckling the edges of the bed tightly while forceps dig into his body. In what feels like forever, they’re finally taken out, gripping a shard no bigger than an Ewok’s thumb. 

Letting go of the bed, he takes a deep breath. “How many more of those?” He asks in trepidation. 

TK-084 throws the piece of armor into the trash near him. “That was the deepest one. There are three others that shouldn’t be a problem.” He supplies as he goes in for another one. CT-113 mentally wishes he had alcohol he could drink to numb the pain. 

The next pull isn’t as bad but still takes his breath away, groaning as his hands almost scratch at the bed beneath him. 

Still determined to distract himself, CT-113 tries holding conversation again. 

“What does the client need with the Arcona?” He inquires. 

From what he can tell, the other man seems hesitant to deliver that information before letting out a deep breath, deflating in in answer to an internal debate. 

“Not much there other than the Arcona is supposedly a mechanic in breach of contract.” He offers with a shrug. “He’s apparently got another three years to be employed under them. That’s all the information they were willing to give, insistent on his return to work for them.” TK-084 concludes then fully focuses on stemming the excessive blood flow from the two cuts the shards were just extracted from. 

Satisfied with that much at least, CT-113 tries pondering of another topic of distraction. His musings are cut short when he hears the red-eyed man speak up. 

“... I saw that burn on your back.” He freezes up at the mention of it, taken aback by its mention, considering its level of taboo. 

Apparently not noticing his sudden discomfort not related to the wound in his stomach, TK-084 continues, “Do you remember it at all?” He asks, almost a quiet reverence to the question, wistful. 

Does he remember it? 

_Does he remember it?_

Does he remember receiving his Mark at the age of five, when kids are said to obtain their symbols? The feeling of joy and comfort when his mother tells him of the symbols. Of someone being out there just for him. 

Of his mother going on and on about the rumors of the symbols and what they mean. Gushing over his big, complex one. Stating that she read somewhere that the more symbols, the deeper the meaning, the stronger the connection is to your Soulmate. 

Does he remember tracing the outlines of every part of his Mark for the first time? The fourth time? The last time? Starting from the center with the two equilateral triangles, the outlined one on top of the one shaded black, both pointing at each other. Then gliding on the horizontal black line crossing between them to then move to the two other objects bisected by the line. First, the top symbol shaded in black, upside-down and u-shape, three unshaded dots through it at the top left, right, and center. After, the symbol below the line, an inverse of colors from the top one, right-side-up and u-shape. 

Does he remember the last thing his mother said about his Mark before she died when he was six? How he should cherish his Mark and treasure his Soulmate at the other end of it? 

Has he analyzed and over-analyzed the meanings of these symbols? Reading in any books he could get his hands on at such a young age. For years secretly trying to understand their meaning and any clues it could give as to how to find his Soulmate, knowing that if his father or uncle knew, he’d be dealt with harshly in the next coming weeks during training. 

Does he remember only getting as far as knowing that the u-shaped symbols could mean either good luck or bad luck, depending on positioning, before his uncle found out and burned all books even mentioning Soulmarks? 

Then telling his father about it. 

Does he remember the utter feeling of _despair_ when he turned fifteen only to find that to become a Stormtrooper, he must swear under oath and publicly prove of _all_ his loyalty by burning his Mark off? Leaving a scar to never forget to whom he belongs. Crushing all his childhood hopes and dreams in one singular process. 

Does he remember seeing the smirks of satisfaction on both his father and uncle’s faces at his final act of subservience to the Empire? Torn about finally feeling accepted by his father and uncle but on the other hand feeling the disappointment from his mother. Furthermore, letting down his _Soulmate_. 

Does he remember the day he finally accepted the fact that he’ll never be with his Soulmate? 

A sharp pain in his abs makes him aware of the huge shard TK-084 just ripped out of his body, the pain almost as agonizing as the pain in his heart from the memories unlocked that he’s been forcefully keeping from seeing the light of day to avoid this turmoil. He takes slow, even breaths to get passed the pain and compose himself enough to answer. 

“... No. I don’t remember.” CT-113 monotonously answers the trooper’s question, not wanting to show an emotional weakness while already displaying a physical one. He stares determinedly up at the other’s face to exhibit how unaffected he is by this conversation and asks in turn, “Do you?” 

TK-084 briefly pauses in reaching for the last shard, not looking up from his hand. There’s a twitch of his hand before he continues in his course of action. “No.” He clips back, ending the discussion there as he grabs the last shard with the forceps and pulls it out. 

The groan it produces from CT-113 doesn’t leave past his lips but is loud nonetheless. He slumps down on the bed in exhaustion and feels the other man go through the typical process of cleaning away his blood then applying the bacta patch to his wound. 

He misses what TK-084 says after that as he finally lets himself cave into his body’s desires for sleep. 

Maybe he’ll be lucky enough for it to be dreamless. 

\--- 

Two days later, the troopers are finally capable enough to set off for their ship, walking once again like when the first arrived, much to CT-113's dismay. 

This time, he ignores the itch of the scar on his back caused by the heat, avoiding every and all thoughts pertaining to it. He glances over to the Arcona who is begrudgingly being pulled along by his squad leader. In the deep reaches of his mind he wishes him all the luck in returning to his own Soulmate. 

In what feels like forever, CT-113 sees the silhouette of their ship in the distance, legs picking up the pace in his excitement. Happy to say that they can call this mission a success, despite the loss of a fellow soldier and other hiccups along the way. Ecstatic to leave this cursed sand-ball behind and all the memories that were dredged up during their stay there. 

With every step forward he let’s go of the bad luck just being on this planet has caused. 

He feels a fated good luck on the horizon.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's Corin's soulmark that I made up for this, which, btw, I'm not an artist so this is done in the most simplistic way possible. Kinda corny but I like symbolism, so sue me. (Please don't!)
> 
> Hopefully, you enjoyed this enough to want more.


End file.
